


sleep tight in a new light

by leonshardt



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-16 19:40:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9286988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonshardt/pseuds/leonshardt
Summary: He wonders how much longer this thing, this shaky, tentative stalemate between them, will last. Like a sputtering lighter spark, about to go out any second with the wrong word or move. Jack calls it collaboration. McCree calls it a truce. It’s an ember, is what it is, a tiny piece of frayed trust, and it’ll only stay lit as long as they’ll allow it to.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For Mc76 Week Day 4: Trust. Takes place in my vigilante AU where Soldier:76 basically blackmails McCree into helping him take down Talon. You can just imagine it takes place in the same verse as my previous mc76 fic! It's basically the same thing.

Jack’s checking under the bed again.

McCree knows for a fact that his pulse rifle is still there, hidden near the edge of his side of the bed, unmoved since the last time he looked. Within reaching distance, in case they get caught out while sleeping.

“Relax, it ain’t gonna grow legs and walk out on you,” McCree says. Jack gives no indication of having heard him. He moves on to checking the window. McCree uses the opportunity to check his own inventory: Peacekeeper, hat, boots. All within arms-distance, and at least one knife on him at all times. He pats himself down, checks the distance to the door. Checks again, until he’s satisfied.

When McCree looks up, Jack is standing by the window, still naked. The lights outside the hotel room paint his bare chest in neon waves, a watercolor of flashing store signs. The handprints on his collarbone are starting to bruise, from where McCree was gripping him earlier tonight. McCree can’t tear his gaze away. Jack may be a paranoid bastard, but he isn’t self conscious; or maybe he just has his priorities in other places. In any case, it doesn’t take long for him to put away the bug sweeper and return to bed.

Allies should know where each other’s guns are hidden, McCree thinks. Allies. Or whatever the hell they are, him and Jack.

He wonders how much longer this thing, this shaky, tentative stalemate between them, will last. Like a sputtering lighter spark, about to go out any second with the wrong word or move. Jack calls it _collaboration_. McCree calls it a truce. It’s an ember, is what it is, a tiny piece of frayed trust, and it’ll only stay lit as long as they’ll both allow it to.

“You ever think you’re a little too paranoid?” McCree says, mostly to needle Jack.

Jack grunts, settling into the bed. “Keeps me alive.”

“You know that's treatable, right?” McCree says, scratching his beard.

“Death isn’t treatable.”

Yeah. A real ray of sunshine, that one.

McCree pulls out his lighter, clicks it, holds it up to the cigar dangling from his mouth. The first drag is familiar, a relief. He exhales slowly, savoring the taste.

Beside him, Jack heaves out a sigh. “This is a no smoking room.”

McCree shrugs and says, “So open the window.”

Jack turns around to give McCree a withering look. “Yeah,” he says, “Go ahead and open the window, see what happens next.”

McCree takes another drag. “Is it rigged? Did you put a bomb under the windowsill? I was wonderin’ why it was taking you so long there.”

Jack doesn’t answer. He doesn’t move away, either. He’s still looking at McCree with furrowed brows, like he’s expecting something.

“What?” McCree says.

Jack shifts position. “Come here,” he says. He places his hand on the back of McCree’s neck and pulls him forward, until they’re face to face. Jack’s telegraphing his movements, as close to asking for permission as he’ll get, so McCree lets himself be guided. He takes the cigar out of his mouth with his left hand, holds it while his other hand fists the sheets. He goes perfectly still as Jack leans in closer, closer, until their lips are almost touching. Jack slides his eyes shut, and slowly inhales the smoke curling out of McCree’s open mouth. The moment seems to last forever. There’s no air Jack’s breathing that doesn’t taste like McCree.

McCree feels like his lungs are burning, and it’s not just from the smoke. After a moment, he licks his lips. Pulls away, half an inch, tugging against the hand against his neck.

“I wasn’t offerin’,” he says, after a long pause. The cigar dangles from the fingers of his mechanical hand, the cherry-red tip still burning. But despite his words, McCree doesn’t look particularly bothered.

“I wasn’t asking,” Jack says. His voice is rough. He shoves McCree away and rolls over, wrapping his arms around himself.

“Alright,” McCree says to Jack’s back. He brings the cigar back to his mouth. The back of McCree’s neck is still damp from where Jack was holding him in. He sighs, dropping his head against the headboard.

The ember flickers, and glows.

 


End file.
